#3 DORIAN, NOTTING HILL
You don’t need me to tell you that we’re well into the depths of party season. Coffee jitters, the unmistakable whiff of Christmas shindig shame and the glittery residue on just about everything should have given that away long ago. Unless you’re supersonic, collective social batteries are already dwindling. No matter how much you adore those close to you, how many times can you really listen to yourself moan about Sharon from work; your best mate update you on their relationship despite the fact you’ve already analysed every aspect of it in the group chat; or your partner chew too loudly before you go (jazz hands, please) full psycho? After all, it’s about to really ramp up. Unlike the light at the end of the tunnel, the cold, hard reality of family, their views, and their terrifying habits is incoming. Yes, adopting the foetal position with a takeaway burrito is an option, but after the year we’ve had, I think it’s time for a little solo self-indulgence, don’t you?
This is what brings me to Dorian in Notting Hill, a place apparently ‘embodying a hedonistic, counter-cultural ethos, transitioning from a lunchtime dining room to a subversive, clandestine dinner destination.’ Sounds, well… ridiculous. And obviously worthy of some serious investigation. The prospect of being immersed in a subversive experience all by oneself at the peak of soirée season will surely be an eye-opening exercise. Plus, the food, centred on seasonal British produce and a variety of broadly European influences (no, not clandestine in the slightest) by chef Max Coen sounds a delight.
There was just one teeny, tiny problem: it would seem either by glitch or design, that Dorian’s website doesn’t take solo bookings, though it says they save some space for walk-ins. I rock up at 6pm as groups of people claiming reservations swarm the door in the hope of securing a seat. I do and am directed to the striking bar, wrapped around a crackling open kitchen reminiscent of those at Barrafina and The Palomar, complete with theatrical grill. The row of stools is empty, bar one woman placed nearest the door. I sit down between her, an iPad and a stack of black plastic trays. It’s not too bad, I’ve had my fair share of McDonald’s. Plus, the staff are lovely. ‘Here’s the drinks list, but we can make you whatever you like,’ says a terrifically friendly waitress. Which is just the sort of shameless self-indulgence I was looking for.
I sit between a woman, an iPad and a stack of plastic trays. It’s not too bad, I’ve had my fair share of McDonald’s
Nevertheless, I order their signature concoction: a fragrant, buttery fig leaf Negroni and a selection of snacks, which I eat as drinks are poured and passed inches from my face to servers behind me. Crab rosti? Well-balanced but cold. Liver parfait toast? Burnt. Raw Gillardeau oyster? Very good, though it comes with a side of ‘we usually seat people in pairs’, from another waitress, when apologising for trying to give it to my human neighbour.
Next comes my main course, made up of two tempting-sounding starters: pigeon with quince purée, sautéd mushrooms and sprout tops; and squash with curd and chimichurri. Beautifully smoky and tender, the bird (excuse the pun) sings, while sadly the squash — a well seasoned but burnt mush, held together by its skin — does not.
It is at this point — with a cold shoulder worse than mum’s when you don’t compliment her well-coordinated tree (thanks, door), but buoyed by a generous glass of Montepulciano and the promise of an impending custard tart — that I decide to chat to the woman next to me. She’s a Romanian neurologist’s assistant, and this transpires to be the reigning joy of the evening. Despite being awarded the worst seats in the house due to our solo diner status, and the underwhelming (actually quite ‘counter-cultural’) food for £80, we share desserts — mine doomed with a soggy bottom; hers, a decadent, deliciously rich whip of chocolate and candied walnuts — and talk about Romanian cooking. Behold: a new pen pal, and a reminder of just one of the benefits of hopping aboard a stool for one — hedonistic, subversive, clandestine, knock-out or not.
